Wasn’t Iliad, enigma, in a, blind bard’s fist
Could a universe, evade, Shakespeare’s, Eliot’s ken!
In man’s mind, child is, an alchemist
Who can’t, clasp truth, beyond a, theorist’s pen!
All pilgrims, in their, pilgrimages
Yet progenies, of the, same pursuit
Who spent, their blood, o’er time’s pages
To write, those truths, never absolute!
“O Art! Thy name, is irony!”
Is not untrue, in the, slightest
For every epic, is a, faith’s journey
Each artist, tomb of a, vain conquest!
Our thoughts, are theories, and minds, prisms
Which scatter, faiths’ and fears’, metaphor
Our art, is a, sum of, all our isms/
Our art, is the making, of our isms
Every Literature, Is A, Conjecture!
© 2019 Vikas Chandra